Of Tummies and Such
by Stamper Comma Leland
Summary: After the events of a little fic called Ogre, Neal goes home with Peter. Discussions of spanking ensue. [Please don't read if that's not your thing]


**A/N:** This is a quickly-written sequel (once again, Write or Die, so I can't speak to the quality of this fic) to my previous fic, _Ogre_. **It contains discussion of spanking**, so if that's not your thing, I would advise you to not read it. If you read it despite yourself, or it is, indeed, your thing, go play and have fun. Thank you for any and all reviews. You guys are always really kind and giving with those and it makes me feel all warm and tingly inside. Hope you enjoy this.

**Of Tummies and Such**  
(or, this author is _horrible_ at titles)

* * *

Neal shifts in the passenger seat of Peter's car, acutely aware of the faint ache in his bottom. The interior leather sounds beneath him, and every few minutes, he glimpses Peter's apologetic looks out of the corner of his eye. Neal understands these looks. For instance, if _he_ had been the one to hit _Peter_, he too would appear very sorry, would make his complete and utter regret known to his hurt friend, would apologize profusely.

Peter didn't apologize profusely, just so everyone's aware. Peter mumbled a single "M'sorry" in the spontaneity of a hug, might've brushed his lips against Neal's neck in a paternal kiss. But he didn't apologize profusely.

So, Neal shifts. The squeak of the leather resonates through the quiet car. Life goes on.

And, yet, all Peter offers up is this: "El's making Cornish game hens tonight. She was going to save them for another night, but I told her to expect you for dinner, and then she was just so excited about these little chickens-"

"Peter," Neal interjects disapprovingly, even though the assertion is correct. They are, indeed, 'little chickens.' "They're called Cornish game hens. Don't call them anything else."

"Why? That's what they are. They're little-"

"_Peter_. It's derogatory, that's why."

Peter snorts incredulously. "_Derogatory?_"

"Yes, derogatory," Neal says. "Just ask your wife. I bet she'll agree with me."

"Hmm…"

And the car falls silent again. It takes several moments for Neal to remember himself, to partake in an extra long squirm and moan quietly in a forlorn sort of way. Peter shoots him a worried look.

A worried look that lasts for too long.

"Eyes," Neal hisses, shifting towards Peter and taking pressure off his right buttock. "Eyes on the road."

Peter returns his eyes to the road. The beats of noiselessness are prolonged things as Neal lolls his head towards his handler, takes in the man's profile with immense, electric eyes, lets yet another moan escape his mouth as he deliberately allows the right cheek to fall back onto the seat.

"Look, Neal, I…I lost my head earlier, you know, kiddo? I wasn't thinking. What happened, it…it just sort of happened."

Neal resists the urge to roll his eyes, to say, "_Articulate as usual, Peter." _ Because that would blow it. That would blow this entire operation he's setting up. Instead, he widens his already vast gaze and nods as if he understands.

He bites his lip. Then, in soft, sad tones, "I was bad."

Peter's jaw goes slack, then tightens. Surprise overtaken by a firm sort of determination. "No, you weren't _bad_, kid. You were annoying and disobedient, but it's not like you were doing something illegal. You weren't doing anything that could land you back in prison, or get yourself killed, so I shouldn't have reacted like that."

They're home. Peter opens his door and Neal follows suit, trails the man up the steps to his house, asks, "You shouldn't have?"

Peter unlocks the door, says, "I shouldn't have." They're inside, the warm air of the house melting the chill from their skin. They're peeling off their overcoats when Peter turns around and looks Neal directly in the eyes for the first time since that afternoon's indiscretion and repeats quietly, genuinely, "I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry."

And Neal feels his chest clench, starts wondering if he should just give it up now, when Elizabeth makes her presence known from the top of the stairs, "Sorry for what?" she asks, stepping down with a smile on her face, and then she's on the ground floor, is kissing Peter's lips and hugging Neal, and Peter's got a big mouth, is ignoring Neal's shaking head over Elizabeth's shoulder.

"Sorry that I lost my temper with Neal today," Peter says, a sorrowful look etched into the lines of his face. "I gave him a spanking in the men's restroom."

Neal feels like his face has been set aflame at the chosen wording as Elizabeth's mouth drops open. "You…_what_?"

"I know, hon, I know. I just, I know it's no excuse, but I was having a horrible day. It all started with Satchmo, you know, and then Neal made us late for work because he couldn't get his hat tilted just right or something silly like that, and then these _kids_, El. They don't teach 'em manners at Quantico, apparently, they were all talking over one another and then this one here kept telling me no, over and over again, and I just…I just lost it."

Neal stares at the floor. He swears he can practically hear El's dumbfounded blinks before, "_Peter…_"

"I know!" The exclamation is sodden with remorse. "And the poor kid's been shifting all over the place all the way home. I think I must really have laid into him hard, El…"

"Did you bruise him?" Elizabeth asks crisply. "Did you even check?" Neal feels a small hand on the waistband of his pants. It takes him a few moments to realize what's happening while his belt is being unbuckled and then there is the swift feeling of air as-

"E_liz_abeth!" he squeals, jumping away from the woman and gathering his pants back to him. He speeds around Peter, refastening his fixtures as he hides behind his tall friend, peeking over the older man's shoulder at Elizabeth who looks decidedly unabashed and even more intent. Peter turns his head, regards the wide-eyed Neal out of the corner of his eye.

"Maybe you should let her check, buddy. To make sure there's no lasting damage. How's your tummy?"

_Tummy?_ Neal mouths to himself, because what is he? Three? He's not three. He does not require words like _tummy_. That's just over-the-top, especially coming from Peter, who would undoubtedly run screaming bloody murder if confronted by an actual three-year-old. Guy has a kid phobia, to be sure.

But then he remembers his mission. That mission he hasn't quite figured out, yet, just that he has one: to make Peter feel as bad about this as possible to ensure that it both never happens again, and that he gets something out of it this time.

He sniffs and untucks his shirt, shows his…_tummy_ to Peter. The redness from at first colliding with and then bending over the sink has disappeared with time, leaving his skin clean and pale, unblemished. Peter turns around fully to look at it, leans down with a hand on Neal's hip before righting himself and nodding in acceptance. "Looks good. It doesn't hurt anymore?"

Neal shakes his head. He doesn't know what was going on in Peter's head during the spa- during _that_, but it wasn't that hard of a push. Most of the redness that occurred came from actually leaning over the damn ceramic. And the swats? They weren't all that hard. Well, at first they were. The first few, when Peter lost it, were an emphatic and stinging affair, but as the agent became more aware of what he was doing, they faded into a series of nominal smacks.

Neal burns with the memory of them, how he wanted Peter to stop not because it hurt, but because of how they made him feel: small and…naughty. And not in the fun way. And that he annoyed his friend enough to incite a physical reaction well…that was punishment in its own right. He's just glad Peter didn't actually hit _hit_ him, because not only does Neal not do well with violence, but that would annihilate the small secret hope that exists inside of Neal that Peter looks at him and sees something more than just a guy who committed bond forgery, and other alleged acts.

This is the hope he's hanging onto as Peter attempts to pull at the waistband of his pants, to peek into the back to see if there is any bruising.

"Hey!" Neal says, and backs away, blushing. "I'm _fine_, Peter." "Fine" isn't conducive to his earlier mission but he doesn't think he can handle the Burke household trying to check on his posterior all night long. "Seriously, they were practically love pats. You barely hit me."

Peter peers at him skeptically. "You were crying…"

"Well, it _hurt_…emotionally." Neal has no doubt that he's utterly red in the face at this moment, with both Elizabeth and Peter looking at him like he's some poor abused boy from the 19th century streets of London. It only serves to put him on the defensive: "You're not supposed to go around hitting your CI."

"My CI isn't supposed to go around telling me 'no' like a two-year-old," Peter retorts. "And I did not hit you, I spanked you. There's a difference."

Neal sees no difference. "I see no difference."

"One is, or should be, a mild physical correction reserved for children-"

"I'm not a child!"

"Aren't you?" Peter asks, and Neal sees the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of the older man's lips, feels irritation course through him, because how is this funny, exactly? And where are his profuse apologies?

"No! I'm not, Peter."

Peter nods thoughtfully, biting his bottom lip. Then he asks, "So you're not playing it up to get something out of it, then? Surely not, because that's something a little boy would do, not a big, grown up hardened criminal…"

And Elizabeth breaks whatever character she's been playing, giggles quietly behind her hand. "You just _knew_ he would do that," she says.

What? Wait…"You already knew," Neal says accusingly, for it's all coming together in his head. How Peter obviously told El immediately after the incident occurred, how the man has been playing it up on his own end this whole time, all that sorrow and false regret, words like _tummy_, for chrissakes…

"In this particular circumstance, you were damn well predictable, Caffrey," Peter informs him, but then softens his tone. "And I'm still sorry for how things happened today, Neal. I should have made you sit at your desk and look at some cold cases for being such a little pain in the ass. Like I said in the car, you didn't do anything that could land you in prison or get yourself killed, so-"

"Wait." Peter did say that in the car, right as they drove up to the house, but it didn't register then what he fully meant. "You're saying this could happen _again_?" No, no Neal will not stand for this. He is not a child, and like Peter said, spankings are a mild form of physical correction that _should _be reserved for children. "I'm not a _kid_, Peter."

Peter's not rising to the argument, though. He just shrugs, looks Neal in the eye for a moment, then looks down, looks away, looks shy. He raises his head and eyes some indeterminate point on Neal's face, puts a hand on his shoulder and brushes off some imaginary lint. "Maybe not," he says, his voice gruff with emotion. "But I kinda like to think of you as my kid."

And as much as Neal hates the thought of _that_, as much as he'll fight it when the inevitable times arise in which Peter will decide to take him in hand, that hope he's been clinging to since this deal began has just sprung into reality.

And it's a reality he won't let go.


End file.
